


Leather and Lace

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Crossdressing Kink, Lingerie, M/M, Panties, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Liam feels delicate and exposed, even under the layers of denim and plaid and his three-day scruff.  He feels like- well, like him.  Like the man he’s becoming, rather than the little boy he left behind in Wolverhampton.</i>
</p><p>Liam finds himself in delicate slips of silk and lace.  Harry finds himself in Liam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather and Lace

**Author's Note:**

> Um, so, it’s possible I took Liam’s Victoria Secret Fashion Show appearance a little too seriously. Also, I have a lot of feels about [this](http://speakingwosound.tumblr.com/post/105187149873) tweet. It all led to this.
> 
> I’ve never written anything like this before, so, please, be kind.

It's Louis's fault. 

Most ridiculous, embarrassing, and illicit things are Louis's fault.

It starts with Simon Cowell. Tall, a little foreboding, his ill-fitting white shirt buttoned halfway down his chest, and eyeing Liam up and down like Liam was a horse up for auction. Not like Liam knows what it's like to be a horse, or to be up for auction, but he's spent enough time watching sci-fi at Zayn's flat to get the general idea.

Anyway, so, Simon Cowell. Who eyes Liam from head to toe then hands him a business card - "Talent Scout, Syco Entertainment" - and tells Liam to call him if Liam would ever like to make a few bucks.

Liam always wants to make a few bucks. Moving from Wolverhampton hasn't exactly gone as smoothly as Liam had hoped - namely it involves a lot more school work and a lot more bills then he had thought it would when he was nineteen and lying awake thinking about transferring to the University of London - and he's pretty strapped. 

So, he supposes, he could blame his parents. For raising him in a small town where everyone knew his name and would never let him go hungry. Worst came to worst, there was always Margie down the street, who baked blueberry pies and left them in her open window to cool. Liam could blame his parents for spoiling him. Not, like, that they had a lot of things, but they were fine. Working class, but never wanting. 

Blaming his parents would be ungrateful, though, so he's back to Louis.

Louis fucking Tomlinson.

Liam would give him a piece of his mind when he gets back to their shared flat, except that he is never uttering a word of this. To anyone. Ever. 

He'll just seethe in silence and rue the day he ever agreed to go to that damn party. With Simon Cowell and the business card and the modeling gig that he absolutely does not have the body for. 

Not that his body is bad, per say. He tries to jog a few times a week and will join any pick-up football or basketball match he comes across. He's pretty pale though, and spends way too much time lounging in sweats and a beanie, eating cheese puffs and playing video games, to pull off the preppy J Crew look.

He definitely does not have the body for the pile of silk and lace waiting for him behind the folding privacy screen set up in the corner of the giant warehouse. Lace and silk that do not in any way come together to make the heavy, cable knit, ugly Christmas sweater he thought he'd be wearing for an advent calendar photo shoot.

Liam’s glaring at the offending fabric when there's a knock on the screen and a curly head pops around the edge. "You alright?"

"Ahh." Liam's hands freeze with his belt unbuckled and the zipper of his jeans down, and he turns, holding up a thin slip of silk. "I don't-"

"Know how to wear it?" The boy swipes his long hair off his forehead so that Liam can see his wink. "Taking your trousers off is generally, like, a first good step. I can help if you'd like?"

"I'm, um, I’m good with that part."

"Sure? You don't really sound it."

"Um." Liam can feel his blush rising to his ears, painting the back of his neck Barbie pink. "No, I've, ahh, I'm good with that part. Not so much with the linger-ee part?"

The boy splits into a grin that spreads across his face and settles into deep dimples in his cheeks. "Lingerie."

"What?"

"It's pronounced lan-ger-ay."

"I don't-" Liam spreads the silk between his fingers. "My problem isn't really with the word."

"What is your problem with then?" He asks, then instantly holds up his hands, palms up. "Sorry, I don't mean to sound rude. It's just, we're on this time schedule with the studio and- I'm Harry, by the way."

He holds out his hand and Liam trips over the silk pants a little before he shoves them under his armpit and takes Harry's hand. Harry’s fingers are long and his palm a bit sweaty, but his handshake is strong. "Liam."

"Nice to meet you, Liam."

"Same." Liam nods. "So, ahh, I figured I'd be wearing, like, trousers and a sweater or summit?"

Harry frowns, biting at the inside of his index finger. "You didn't sign the contract?"

Liam vaguely remembers initializing a whole stack of papers in the Syco offices, but he didn't read anything but the bottom dollar amount. "I signed. Didn't so much read."

"Oh." Harry's still biting his finger and Liam's pretty sure there's going to be a bruise there. "This is an advent calendar for Adam & Eve." Harry trails off, as if Liam's supposed to know what that means.

"I'm assuming that's not as in mangers and baby Jesus?"

"Not as such, no."

"And it is-?"

"Well, um." Harry tips onto the sides of his feet. It looks precarious. "It's, like, a sex shop? On-line. For toys and lubes and DVDs and stuff."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Harry tips over and catches himself on the edge of the screen. "I don't know if you're okay with that? I don't want to force you to do something that makes you uncomfortable and I'm just the photographer. But, like, it's nothing to be ashamed of? Guys look hot in lingerie," he nods at the silk panties still tucked under Liam's armpit. "And I think you'd look good in green. It compliments your coloring and Amelia will like that. Amelia's my camera."

Liam stares at him. Harry speaks low and rough and slow, but he rambles from thought to thought so quickly that Liam's head is spinning. "Do you work for, ahh, what's it called?"

"Adam and Eve?" Harry offers and Liam nods. "No. Syco hired me, just like you. I go to University College, and just needed some pocket money and portfolio pieces, so, when Simon asked, I jumped at the chance."

Liam's stuck on, "portfolio pieces," and chokes them out.

"Oh no, no, don't worry. This is strictly for the calendar. Unless you'd like to do some private modeling?" Harry winks and Liam, inexplicably and, honestly, embarrassingly, has a momentary desire to agree.

It does make him feel better, though, knowing that Harry is doing this for the same reasons he is. Besides, he really does need the cash. 

"Okay," he says, pulling the panties back into his hands. "I'll just, um, change and meet you out there?"

"Brilliant." Harry flashes him two thumbs up before disappearing. 

And leaving Liam alone with the prospect of getting dressed. In black fishnet stockings that hug his thighs with a tight, elastic slip of red lace. He bends his knees, surprised when they don't slip down or pinch his leg hair or anything else uncomfortable. They actually feel- nice, if he'd be willing to admit it. Which he's not. Yet. Especially not when he pulls on the green silk bikini. The fabric slides through his fingers, settling on his hips and slipping, a bit, under the weight of his dick, tucked down and under. 

"Hmm," Harry says when Liam walks out, slowly and with his thighs pressed tightly together so that nothing slips out of place. "You don't have much of a bum, huh?"

Liam glances behind him, at where the silk panties barely stretch to cover him. He's always been a bit of a skinny kid, shorter than he’d like and proud of the muscles in his biceps and abs, but lacking muscle definition much of anywhere else. Although, when Harry turns around, Liam sees that his tight-as-fuck jeans sag and bunch over his own non-existent ass, so, he's one to talk.

"Not the one being photographed," Harry argues, through pursed lips, as if he can read Liam's mind. "Do you mind if I-"

Harry waves his hands in the general direction of Liam's crotch and, well, Liam figures that this can't get any more embarrassing, so he nods. "Have at it."

Harry grins, like Liam's handed him the keys to Zelda's castle and not, like, an awkward grope in this random warehouse. It's a nice grin, though, so Liam's not going to complain. Especially not when Harry is kind enough to blow warm air into his hands a few times before he sticks them under Liam's waistband and fishes around.

Liam would like to say that he doesn't twitch a little, but it's been a while since anyone's touched him. Not since he broke up with Danielle and had that string of one-night stands that felt empty and meaningless and a little reluctant to try again. So, like, Harry's hand is warm and unnaturally soft and a bit of a novelty, and Liam's only human. So he twitches between Harry's fingers, a warm, undeniable pulse that Harry is a gentleman to ignore.

Harry resituates his dick so that it’s curving up and to the left, nestled between his hip and the silk. Liam naturally curves to the left anyway, so it feels much more comfortable, and has the added benefit of pulling a bit at the fabric so that it stretches across his ass. Which is an illusion, but a nice illusion.

"I'll make sure they bring briefs next time. I think you'll find them more comfortable than this bikini," Harry says, conversationally.

"Next time?"

"Well." Harry pats the head of Liam's dick and winks. "Might just be me being a bit hopeful, but, you might find you like it."

"Hopeless more like," Liam argues, even as his dick twitches again, seeking Harry's fingers and liking the cool, waterfall feeling of the silk against his skin.

"Probably." Harry shrugs and hops back to where he has his camera set up. "Now, look Christmas-y."

Liam has no idea what that means. He must be successful at it, though, because it only takes twenty minutes or so before Harry declares him done.

"You look fabulous," Harry promises, his cheeks a little flushed and Liam wonders, for just a moment, if there isn’t something else Harry could shoot him for.

Instead, he ducks back behind the privacy screen and changes into his jeans and plaid button-down. He leaves the panties and stockings draped over the privacy screen; he figures someone will want to wash them before the next guy puts them on.

Harry's already gone by the time he's done.

***

When Simon asks him to do a photo shoot for Valentine's Day, Liam can't pretend that he doesn't know exactly what kind of photo shoot it is. Not like last time, when he stumbled into lace and silk completely innocent and naive.

Or, at least, more innocent and naive than he is now. With two months of dreaming and garters and lace stocking under his belt. Two months of staying too long in the shower, fingers ghosting over his hips where, in the deep edges of his subconscious, he wishes there was a thin band of silk. Two months of sitting in front of his laptop, "gay lingerie porn" typed into the search bar, without ever pressing enter.

He's also spent the last two months valiantly not opening the large envelope Simon's sent him, with Syco's logo on the corner and what must be a complimentary copy of the calendar inside. It sits, untouched, under the giant stack of bills and coupons piling up in the entryway. He should really make Louis clean that up. If he could make Louis do anything.

So, when Valentine's Day rolls around, he finds himself back in the warehouse, definitely more prepared for the ensemble laid out before him. 

What he is not prepared for is Harry, still all dimples and gangly legs and curls down to his shoulders. He's wearing a loose shirt this time, unbuttoned all the way to his navel, showcasing a big butterfly tattoo across his sternum and two smaller swallows on his collarbones. He’s- a lot. Liam had, honestly, found it hard to be near him when he had been drowning in an oversized chunky sweater. Now- 

"Hey," Harry greets from behind his camera, balancing on the edges of his feet, knees bending inwards, dimples shy at the edges of his mouth. "I was hoping you'd be back."

"Yeah, I- still need the cash, so-" Liam shrugs, already blushing and he's still wearing his pea coat. "I didn't expect to see you again."

Harry shrugs, his smile dimming a little, just enough to smooth out his cheeks. "I need the money, too."

"Right."

"Right."

"I'm, ahh, gonna go change." Liam points behind him, to the tenuous changing space. He wants, more than anything, a door he can slam and then press his back against while he forgets the embarrassment of the last couple minutes. Flimsy plywood privacy screens do not make good doors.

He forgets about it all, though, when he sees his clothes laid out. Dark pink stockings, opaque and smooth in his hands, and pink lace panties, overlaid with light pink lace garters. 

He's stripped down to his boxers, eyeing the garters, when Harry knocks on the screen and peers his head around without waiting for a response.

"Sorry," he grins with his voice. "But, um, I have something for you and I wanted to get you before you changed completely."

"You got me." Liam motions down at himself, before he remembers that he's only dressed in his boxers.

Harry blushes, at least Liam thinks he does. His cheeks are certainly a little pinker as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pair of panties. He holds them up, index fingers pulling at the hips, so that Liam can take a good look at them. 

They're black silk with little pink bows on the hips and they're beautiful and they're- "For me?" Liam asks, wanting them to be, wanting so much.

"Ah huh." Harry nods. "Promised I'd bring you a pair of briefs, didn't I?"

"You didn't know I was gonna be here."

Harry shrugs, holding out the panties. "Take them."

Liam reaches out, his fingers brushing with Harry's around the silk, and Liam flushes as he comes away with the panties. They feel wet and soft in his hands and his skin burns to slip them on. "Thanks," he chokes out around something embarrassing and confusing lodged in his throat.

"No problem." Harry shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets, accentuating just how long and tanned his fingers are. He's halfway gone when he turns to give Liam a shy smile. "I, um, was really hoping you'd be here." 

He waves his hand at the briefs, and then ducks out. Liam's stomach swoops, burying itself low in his belly. 

***

Liam doesn't mean to stop in at Victoria's Secret.

He's actually never been into a Victoria's Secret. Seen the Fashion Show on TV, drinking a beer with Zayn and waiting for the models to trip over their stiletto heels. The store is nothing like the show, except for the pink and black color theme and the rows and rows of lace bras and the displays of gold satin panties. So, it's exactly like the Fashion Show and Liam is half hard before he's crossed the threshold.

"Can I help you?"

"Ahh." Liam starts. She has 'Pink' written across her chest in silver sequins but Liam forces his eyes higher.

"Are you shopping for someone? Sister, niece, maybe a girlfriend?"

"Ah." Liam's brain feels stuck. "Uncles buy lingerie for their nieces?"

She leans closer, her long blond curls brushing the shoulder of his faux leather jacket. "Not usually, no."

"Okay," Liam says slowly. They're standing next to a display of nude thongs trimmed with matching lace and Liam reaches down to run his fingers over them.

Her eyes follow his hands. "Nice choice. Those are from our 'Very Sexy' collection. You must have a very lucky lady at home."

Liam jerks his hand back, feeling his flush pool in his fingertips, warm and sweaty. "No, um, they're for my sister. Ruth."

"Oh." The saleswoman raises an eyebrow. "Maybe we should look for something a little less- sexy, hmm?"

"Yeah," Liam mumbles, following her to a section displaying sensible cotton panties in stripes and colors and animal patterns.

"These might be a little more the style you're looking for. What size is your sister?"

Liam hasn't thought this through. At all. "Um, I think, maybe, like this?" He holds up his hands, about as wide apart as his own hips are. 

She purses her lips, frowning and tutting. "Oh, I see."

Liam doesn't think that there's a single part of him that isn't red. He doesn't even know why he's here, looking for women's pants in infantilized pastel elephant patterns. And of course they don’t carry his size. He’s a grown man. He should be wearing boxers that come in ten-for-five-pound packages at Bhs. And, if his body insists on maintaining this panty – thing – then he should stock up at seedy on-line sex shops that cater silk and lace to men of his stature. Unimpressive as it is.

God, he doesn't know what's wrong with him. Why his brain short-circuits when he feels the scratch of lace against his fingers or why his knees ache at the cool feel of satin against his skin, or why his dick is pressing insistently against the zipper of his jeans just because he’s standing in the middle of this store.

These reactions aren't normal. Or, at least, they're not normal for a poor boy from Wolverhampton who's still coming to terms with the fact that he has very little interest in the saleswoman not-so-helpfully shoving her tits in his face – no matter how perky and sequined they are – and quite a bit of interest in Syco’s curly-haired camera man.

If his family knew- if Ruth ever found out how vainly he's casting her name-

"Um, you know what? I forgot that I have a- thing. Yeah, a really, important, thing. But I'll come back later. Maybe. Don't, you know, wait up for me or anything. To close, I mean, not for-" Liam waves his hand, wanting - more than he's ever wanted anything - for the floor to turn to quicksand and swallow him whole.

He's backing away, slowly, trying not to glance down at the display even though his fingers are twitching to touch, when he feels an arm around his shoulders.

"Liam, hey, fancy meeting you here."

"Harry." Liam tumbles over Harry’s name, allowing himself to be dragged away from the sales woman in her sequined top and her beady eyes. Her glare is digging into the back of both their heads, and Liam’s pretty sure that she gets exactly how uninterested he is.

"Sorry," Harry murmurs, tightening his arm around Liam’s shoulders and leaning closer so that he can drop his voice. "Looked like you were in a bit of trouble, so I thought I’d stage a rescue. If, of course, you weren’t trying to pull?" He bites his lower lip, pulling a bit away and, before he can stop himself, Liam leans towards him.

"Definitely not." Liam reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "I don’t- um, I’m not interested in her. Or, really, in hers. In general."

"Cool." Harry shrugs, bumping his shoulder into Liam’s and grinning as if Liam didn’t just spill his biggest secret for the first time. "So, while we’re here do you wanna-?" He spreads his hands and Liam glances around.

They’ve wondered back into the ‘Very Sexy’ part of the store, surrounded by displays and displays of panties and bras, fabrics slinky and dangerous in the dim light. "I-"

"Oh, come on." Harry’s still grinning, conspiratorial and cheeky. "I know you weren’t here to actually buy pants for your sister."

"No, I- no, I wasn’t." Liam glances down, running his index finger over a display of grey cheeky panties, and shivering. "But, I’ve never actually done this before."

"I have," Harry pronounces, and Liam figures that, really, he shouldn’t be surprised. "Not, for me, really, but I bought that pair for you, right?"

Liam tries not to think about that. At least, he tries not to think about it at times when he can’t disappear to wank in the dark for the few brief minutes it takes him every time he relives Harry handing him those panties, gifting them as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Gifting them like he wanted Liam to wear them, like he thought Liam would look nice in them.

Harry smiles at him. "Just, find something you like."

"I don’t know what I like," Liam says, before he realizes that that’s not true at all. He knows exactly what he likes. What fabrics feel good under his hands and what colors stand out against his pale skin.

He glances around, lighting on a black pair. They’re nylon, with lace trim that widens around his hips, marked by two small, satin bows on each side. They’re beautiful and sexy and, despite the way he feels like his face is burning, he pulls out an x-large and holds them up.

"They’re beautiful," Harry murmurs, and Liam hopes he sounds a little breathless.

"Think they’ll fit?"

Harry squints his eyes, glancing between Liam’s hips and the panties, and if Liam wasn’t a bit hard before, he is now, leaking into his practical cotton boxers. Liam ignores it though, as Harry nods and offers him a thumb’s up.

Liam’s about to ask a question – a mundane thing about the washing and handling of nylon – when a group of teenage girls comes around the corner, their giggles preceding them. Liam balls the panties into his fist, feeling the fabric bunch and wrinkle, feeling stupid and ridiculous for caring about that.

Until Harry presses against his side, dropping his voice again. "They’re 3 for 33 pounds."

Liam waits until the girls are gone, but then he picks out a simple, red lace pair and a grey satin pair trimmed with black lace. 

"You have good taste," Harry says, dancing on the balls of his feet as they wait in the checkout line.

Liam’s embarrassed when they get to the counter, but the checkout woman doesn’t bat an eyelash as she takes his credit card and wraps them carefully in pink tissue paper. She probably thinks they’re for his sister, or his girlfriend. Hopefully she thinks they’re for his girlfriend. 

The bag is small, striped in shades of pink, and obvious to anyone who’s ever seen a television ad or been to a mall, and Liam clutches it to his chest as they head back out into the main section of the mall. "Um, thanks, for, you know, helping me in there. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up."

"Probably would have ended up with a bag full of sporty pants for your sister," Harry teases. "Do you even have a sister?"

"Two, yeah."

"Well, would have been a nice surprise gift."

"I suppose." Liam pats the bag, not sure if he wants to hide it or draw attention to it. "This is better though."

Harry winks. "Well, I’ve gotta run to a shoot, but, can I get your number? There was actually something I wanted to run past you."

Liam’s not sure he could possibly turn redder, but he’s pretty sure he’s managing. He gives Harry his number, anyway, and just stands there, in the middle of the mall, in his hiking boots and rugged jeans and faux leather jacket, clutching the Victoria Secret’s bag, as Harry waves goodbye.

"This was a fortuitous meeting, Liam Payne." Harry’s walking backwards, as if he’s just as reluctant to lose eye contact with Liam. He grins ruefully when he runs into a tall potted plant, throwing Liam one more wave before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

***

When Harry calls three days later, it’s not for a date. Liam doesn’t realize how desperately he wants it to be until Harry starts rambling - "It would be personal, not, like, for Syco. It’s my, um, senior portfolio project. It’s supposed to be a commentary on masculinity and femininity as, like, a spectrum, you know? Not all black and white and, anyway, I like working with you, so-" - and Liam’s heart sinks, his stomach feeling a little queasy with it and the back of his knees growing clammy.

It’s dizzying, the speed with which he goes from barely knowing Harry to wanting to shag him. Repeatedly, and maybe with dinner and a movie or two and late nights spent huddled under Liam’s quilt, sharing a mug of hot cocoa and their deepest hopes and fears. And- fuck. Liam is gone. So fucking gone.

And he has no idea how it happened.

Which is a total lie. Because, whether he’s known it or not, Harry’s played an integral role in this journey of self-discovery Liam’s been going on. 

Not ‘journey of self-discovery’ as in picking up yoga and going on a vegan diet or any of the things Ruth and Nicola read about in Cosmo and then threaten to try.

For Liam, ‘journey of self-discovery’ has really just meant a lot of time wearing women’s panties and jerking himself off while trying not to picture Harry’s bright green eyes, or those two swallows bracketing his collarbone, or the way he plays with his bottom lip when he’s thinking.

It’s only natural that Harry plays a central role in all of this. After all, Harry was the first one – and, so far, the only – one to see Liam in panties. If Liam doesn’t include the thousands who bought the Adam & Eve advent calendar, or saw the Valentine’s Day photo shoot, and Liam tries very, very hard not to include those people. So, there’s only Harry, who’s been kind and supportive, who’s pushed Liam to overcome the discomfort he’s felt, who bought Liam his first set of panties. Liam still has them. In fact, Liam still wears them a couple times a month.

There’s no reason, though, that Harry would know what an important figure he’s become in Liam’s life.

Liam should probably tell him. 

Instead, he slips on the pair of grey-and-black panties he bought with Harry at Victoria’s Secret and pulls his jeans on over them. No one will know he’s wearing them, particularly not Zayn and Niall, who were very clear about wanting a drama-free pub night with a few pints and a game or two of darts.

Liam will feel better, though. He’ll feel delicate and exposed, even under the layers of denim and plaid and his three-day scruff. He’ll feel like- well, like him. Like the man he’s becoming, rather than the little boy he left behind in Wolverhampton.

And if that’s a secret he keeps close to his skin, tucked tight and low into his jeans, well, he’s okay with Harry being the only who knows. For now.

***

It’s not a date, but it is a photo shoot. A private photo shoot, just him and Harry, so Liam’s as nervous as he would be if it was a date-date. So, apparently, is Harry.

"Sorry, I tried to clean, but, the flat’s not that big, you know?" Harry says, gathering magazines and throw pillows and what looks like a stuffed frog into his arms. He looks nervous, as if he hasn’t had anyone in his flat in a long time. Liam tries not to be too happy about that prospect.

"Am I early?" Liam asks, even though he knows he isn’t. He spent twenty minutes pacing outside, his hands cold and clammy in the late March chill, to make sure that he was exactly on time.

"No, no, you’re perfect." Harry freezes, the back of his neck flushing a little, before he throws everything in his hands onto the kitchen island. "I’m just behind. We were gonna do this at the warehouse, got permission from Simon and everything, but then, when I saw you at the mall last week, I got this flash of inspiration. I can’t photograph you in front of a green screen. That’d be fake and staged and like those stupid cameras. This has to be, like, everyday stuff, right?"

"Um." Liam steps out of Harry’s way. He has his duffle bag in one hand, packed full of all the mundane clothes Harry asked him to bring, and he shuffles it to the other. It’s getting pretty heavy. "Sure."

"Right. So, like, since we can’t use a green screen, we can’t use the warehouse. I need pictures of you someplace casual. Doing normal things, like, watching TV and playing on your phone or whatever. Which is why we’re here. In my messy apartment, on short notice. Sorry."

"It’s okay," Liam says. "I cleared my whole afternoon."

"Oh." Harry stops, looking over at Liam for the first time since Liam arrived. And maybe it’s just because Harry’s obviously a little stressed and a little over-booked, but he looks a little nervous, too, and Liam’s heart leaps. Traitor. "Um, that’s really nice of you. Thanks."

Liam shrugs. "Anything to help a friend out."

Harry grins, all the way to his cheeks, and he’s still harried, but his shoulders have softened and he looks settled again, confident and cheeky, the way he usually is. "Yeah, yeah, that’s, ahh, good. If you wanna, um, change, my bedroom’s that way."

Liam feels his face flush, the way he knew it would when he put on the red lace panties this morning, hiding them under his jeans and leaving the house before he could have second thoughts. "I’m actually already wearing some? They’re red, if that’s cool?"

Harry clears his throat. "Yeah, uh, that’s perfect. To start with." His tongue twists around ‘start’ and it sends heat down Liam’s spine. "Um, can you, just, sit on the couch?"

Liam drops his bag and does what he’s told, settling into the middle of the couch. He feels stiff and controlled, which is stupid. He’s done photo shoots in nothing but lace garters and barely-there silk, sticking his ass out and batting his eyelashes in front of a green screen. Sitting on a couch should be easy.

It feels different, though. Like he’s admitting that this – habit - of his isn’t just a passing fad. It’s not just for photo shoots and sex websites and things outside the confines of Liam’s normal life. And, Liam knew that, before. It wouldn’t feel so good, so comfortable and natural, if it wasn’t at least a little of who Liam is. But, sitting here, on Harry’s threadbare couch, dressed in his normal clothes, it’s like admitting it, for real.

And that’s terrifying and threatening and all those terrible things, but it’s also freeing and wonderful and- God, it feels like the most delicious mix of masculinity and femininity and Liam has to close his eyes for a moment against the dizzying rush of toeing that line.

"Hey, you okay?" Harry’s voice is low, his hand gentle on Liam’s knee and, when Liam opens his eyes, Harry is kneeling on the floor in front of him, eyes green and bright and concerned.

"Yeah." Liam drops his hand to cover Harry’s. "Good, just, different, yeah? This is different."

Harry nods. "I thought it might be. Okay different?"

"Very okay."

"Good. I mean, I was hoping it would be. Based my whole project around it actually." Harry looks a little guilty, but then he shakes his head and leans forward, motioning towards Liam’s body. "Can I-?"

Agreeing to that question is never in Liam’s best interest – or, at least, not in the interest of Harry not finding out how fully and utterly Liam’s body responds to him - but Liam nods. "Sure."

Harry pushes his knees apart, urging him to sit more comfortably in the middle of the couch. Liam goes, letting his thighs fall open and not looking away as Harry flicks open the button on his jeans. Harry spreads the jean flaps and pushes the white cotton of Liam’s Henley further up his stomach, uncovering a large v of red lace, stretched and distorted over the bulk of Liam’s dick.

"Still okay?"

Liam swallows and nods, the muscles of his thighs jumping under Harry’s hands even as he wills himself to relax.

"You’re so beautiful. A perfect subject," Harry murmurs, reaching down to press the heel of his palm between his own legs as he presses a quick kiss to Liam’s denim clad knee, before standing. "Stay just like that."

Harry disappears for a moment, coming back with his camera and a bag full of lenses. He’s wearing the tightest black jeans Liam has ever seen, and they leave nothing of him to the imagination. And, as Harry raises his camera, Liam can’t look away from the thick outline of Harry’s dick straining against his pant leg.

Liam’s sweating by the time Harry puts down his camera, feeling wet and clammy under his collar and in his armpits and behind his knees. His muscles are straining, too, against the effort of sitting still, of staring at Harry’s dick and squinting at every twitch and movement. He feels strung-out, like he’s run a marathon or eaten one of Louis’s quality pot brownies, without ever moving from this couch.

"Are we- I mean," Liam swallows, finally pulling his eyes away from Harry’s crotch to look at his face. "Can I use the loo?"

Harry nods, his voice as scratchy and strained as Liam feels. "Yeah, we’re, um, done with this batch. You can change, too. Maybe the grey pair? And a plaid shirt?"

Liam nods, jumping off the couch and grabbing his duffle on the way to the restroom. He doesn’t have time to see how messy the room is, full of make-up and hair products and used tissues, before he’s pushing his jeans to his knees and getting his hand into his panties.

He’s already leaking profusely, a pool of precome on his left hip that’s sticking the lace to his skin. He wonders, briefly, if it’s enough to show in the photos, but his dick is hard, so hard, and he doesn’t have a whole lot more brain power beyond remembering how to push his jeans to his knees. He slips his panties down, careful not to ruin them, just low enough for the elastic to settle behind his balls, scratchy and red and, fuck, Liam’s about three tugs from coming into a wad of toilet paper. He groans, loud enough, surely, for Harry to know exactly what he’s doing, and the thought - coupled with the image of Harry, so tight and hard in his own jeans - has Liam seeing stars and his muscles feeling shaky and weak.

As he’s coming back to himself, there’s a knock on the door, and he swallows hard enough to clear the aftershocks out of his throat. "Yeah?"

"Hey, I have a shirt for you? Thought it would match nicely." Harry’s voice sounds a little strangled, and Liam quickly cleans himself up, throwing the toilet paper into the garbage can and stripping out of his clothes. 

He opens the door just a sliver to accept the flannel shirt from Harry’s fingers. "Thanks."

He runs the water, splashing it over his face and under his armpits, just enough to wash away the worst of the sweaty feeling, and digs through his bag for his grey panties. They’re cool and slinky against his skin, a welcome relief. And a nice contrast to the shirt, which feels like Harry, big and warm and comfortable, and Liam lets it hang open over his bare chest. He pulls his jeans and socks back on and heads into the living room, where Harry’s futzing with his camera, his cheeks a little ruddy.

"Hey, um, this what you had in mind?" Liam spreads his arms and does a stupid little spin that he hopes is sexier than it feels.

Harry stops him, his hand warm on Liam’s hip. He purses his lips for a moment, before pushing Liam’s jeans to sit low on his hips, low enough to see the lace trim and an inch or two of grey satin. 

"Perfect," Harry grins, patting Liam’s hip.

Liam’s dick, as sated and worn out as it is, twitches under the satin. He has no idea how he’s going to get through the rest of the afternoon.

***

"Honestly, mate, no one’s going to care what you’re wearing," Louis yells from his spot on the couch as he flips a page in Men’s Health. "No one’s going to be looking at you. At least, not the in-person you."

Liam frowns, opening his bedroom door and leaning against the doorjamb as he does up the buttons on his only nice dress shirt. "You know something."

Louis shrugs, flipping another page. "I may have seen Harry’s mock-ups."

"And-?"

"And," Louis drops the magazine with a flourish, turning to stare at Liam, "you’ll never know unless you hurry the fuck up."

"Yeah, yeah." Liam finishes buttoning his shirt and tucks it into his trousers, his fingers brushing against the black and pink panties he bought just for this occasion.

"We’re gonna be late," Louis whines.

"It’s a gallery opening. You can’t be late to a gallery opening."

"You can be too late for the free champagne."

Liam figures Louis has a point, there. And if he’s going to spend the whole evening avoiding a picture of himself, he’s going to need a lot of champagne. He reaches for his jacket, pulling it on and heading for the door.

He glances back at Louis. "What are you waiting for?"

"You are the most infuriating-" Liam closes the door on him, but waits on the sidewalk so they can walk to the Tube together.

It’s not a big gallery, but for a senior thesis, it’s pretty impressive. Or, at least, that’s what Liam read between the humble lines of Harry’s invitation. He had been speaking fast, though, calling Liam between his final classes and finishing up his senior portfolio project, and it’s possible Liam missed something. 

Like how good Harry actually is. And how legitimate this gallery opening is, complete with a coat check and waiters wandering around with trays of champagne and cocktails. Liam’s a little over whelmed when he checks his coat and gives his name. 

"I’m, um, Liam Payne. And this is Louis Tomlinson. We know Harry. The artist."

"Oh." The check-in woman’s eyes light up. "I know who you are. Go right in."

"Don’t we need a name tag or something?"

"No, no, of course you don’t. Go on in. Mr. Styles will be waiting."

"Um-" Liam wants to protest more, but Louis pushes him along, and he drops his voice so that just Louis can hear. "That was weird."

Louis shrugs, snagging two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and pressing one into Liam’s hands. "Not really. You’re the guest of honor."

"I’m not-" Liam let Harry take a few pictures, that’s all. He’s not, like, the guest of honor. That’s ridiculous. But, as they step into the main room, Liam stops. Stops his feet, stops the argument sitting at the edge of his tongue. His fingers feel weak around his glass, his knees loose and he has to grasp Louis’ elbow to hold himself upright.

All around them are pictures of Liam. Touched up and framed with big, dark, masculine frames, most of them without Liam’s face, but all definitely, unquestionably, Liam.

Liam with his knees spread, lounging on the couch with more than a peak of red lace between the open v of his jeans, his eyes dark and smoldering and looking down, below the camera lens.

Liam cooking an omelet, grey silk and black lace showing under Harry’s overlarge plaid shirt.

Liam playing Candy Crush on his phone, splayed out on the couch in a white Henley, black nylon panties, and opaque black stockings.

Liam at a diner down the street from Harry’s flat, sitting on a stool with pink lace just peaking over his jeans.

Liam in the subway, his hands raised to hold the high bar, that same red plaid shirt buttoned and pulled up, showing off a slip of skin, black lace, and a perfect little pink bow.

This isn’t one picture of Liam. This is all Liam. The entire show.

"You must be Liam." Liam shakes himself out of his trance to look at the middle-aged woman standing in front of him. Her eyes are shining, the same olive color as Harry’s. She holds out her hand and Liam wipes his on his trousers before catching hers. "It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Anne, Harry’s mother."

"Oh." Liam doesn’t mean for his eyes to go wide like that, but, it’s rather embarrassing standing in the middle of a room filled with pictures of him in women’s panties, shaking hands with the photographer’s mum. He’s never felt so exposed in his life. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, too."

"Harry’s told me so much about you. But he never told me how exquisite you are. In person or in photograph."

Liam feels himself blush deeply. "Um, thank you. I think."

"It was a compliment," Anne confirms, smiling at him. "And well deserved."

"Well, thank you, ma’am. Your son is really the one who deserves the credit. It was his idea."

She winks at him, and Liam gets the distinct feeling that he’s been out of the loop on a number of things here. "That’s not what I heard."

"What did you hear?"

"Why don’t we go find that son of mine?" She asks, evasively. "He’s got to be around here somewhere. He was talking to that insufferable art history professor last time I saw him."

She leads the way through the growing crowd of well-dressed art critics and admirers starting to gather. Liam feels overwhelmed, too hot for his clothes, too hot, even, for his skin as it itches and crawls everywhere silk is not touching.

Harry catches sight of them and grins, dimples deep and private, just for them, and extricates himself from his conversation. He meets them in front of a picture of Liam in Harry’s bed, clutching a pillow, bare chested, and trackies slipping halfway down his hips, baring black panties strung through with pink satin, crossed like a corset over his ass. Liam figures it’s a hopeless task, at this point, to try and keep himself from blushing.

"I’m so glad you came," Harry says, as he pulls Liam into a long, tight hug, his lips brushing across Liam’s ear in what maybe, possibly, could be construed as a kiss. He’s still grinning, although a little shyly, when he pulls back. "And you’ve met my mum?"

Liam nods. "She recognized me."

"Oh." Harry chuckles, his cheeks flushed on champagne and the success of this night. "I suppose she would."

"Mmm," Liam agrees. "So, you said this was a little thing. This is- this is really impressive, Harry."

Harry shrugs. "It’s my first show. I didn’t really know what that meant."

"He’s being modest." Anne leans forward, and Liam feels a little better, a little more settled, when he sees how embarrassed Harry is, too. "Only the best senior portfolio got a show like this. You boys should both be very proud of what you’ve done."

"It was all Liam," Harry insists, and Liam frowns. He _still_ doesn’t know what that means.

"It wasn’t."

"Have you had a chance to look around yet?" Harry asks, his fingers warm and insistent on Liam’s elbow, as he leads him away from the topic and the photograph. "Come on, let me show you. I’ll be back, mum."

"Don’t worry about me. I can entertain myself." She waves them away as she reaches for another glass of champagne with her free hand.

"Are you sure we should leave her?" Liam asks, glancing back to see that she’s already disappeared into the crowd. Just as charismatic as Harry, then. Figures he learned it from someone. Liam will thank her in his obituary, for when he drops dead of embarrassment.

"She’ll be alright," Harry promises, stopping in front of the picture of Liam on the subway. "This is one of my favorites. I really liked the way it came out, with the colors and those passengers framing you in the background."

Liam nods, not even seeing the passengers. He’s unable to look away from the large, eight-foot tall picture of himself and that little pink bow, peaking over top of his jeans.

"I hope-" Harry’s voice is quiet, tentative, and Liam glances over to see that Harry’s playing with his bottom lip. "I hope you like it? The show, I mean."

"Yeah, I- I do, Harry. I like it a lot." Liam’s surprised at how sincere he is. "There’s just- a lot of me. I thought, I don’t know, I thought there’d be more models. Than just me."

Harry frowns and tilts his head as if the thought had never crossed his mind. "What would I need more models for?"

Liam shrugs. "I don’t know. Just, I’m not anything special, and, I figured there were others. Fit guys - and girls - who caught your eye, that’s all."

Harry looks crestfallen, his lips pale and his eyes tight, and Liam hates himself for saying anything other than _they’re brilliant Haz, absolutely wonderful_.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- Your work is amazing. Honestly, if anyone can make me look like this, he must be a master and you, Harry, you make me look-" Liam shrugs, not sure what word he can possibly use for how wonderful and comfortable and himself he feels in Harry’s pictures.

Harry’s still looking at him, shaking his head, but his lips have a bit more color in them and he’s smiling, just a little, secret, private thing at the corners of his mouth. "You have no idea how beautiful you are. Still. After all this time."

He sounds wistful, and Liam doesn’t know what to say.

"Come on." Harry places his hand on Liam’s lower back, splaying his fingers and applying a careful, steady weight as he pushes Liam along. "I want to show you my favorite."

They stop a few feet in front of the largest photo, far enough away that Liam can see all of what must be a twelve-foot high print. It’s on a wall of it’s own, separated, as if it’s important, as if it’s the culmination of the show.

It’s not one Liam remembers Harry taking, until he realizes that Harry didn’t. Well, he did, but, not professionally. It was later, when they were done shooting and Liam was helping Harry clean up, which really meant that Liam was cleaning up and Harry was futzing around with his camera, previewing the photos and, apparently, taking candids.

"This is what you look like when no one’s looking," Harry says, breath warm and low in Liam’s ear.

"Harry-"

"Just look, please. Try to see yourself like I see you. Please."

Liam nods, turning back to the photo. Harry’s steady behind him, his chest brushing against Liam’s back, his knee pressed into the back of Liam’s, breath hot and steady on Liam’s neck. Liam leans back into him, just a little, just enough to remember that he’s there, and looks.

It takes his breath away.

Liam’s dressed in his everyday clothes, just the tiniest sliver of pink peaking above his jeans. It’s not the panties, though, that draw his attention. Liam’s back is to the camera, his face half-turned to say something to Harry, and it’s his eyes, dark and hazel and so clearly enamored that give Liam away. Will give him away forever, he thinks.

"I’m-" _in love with you_ , Liam wants to say, but it seems redundant, now.

"Yeah," Harry smiles against Liam’s neck and hooks his chin over Liam’s shoulder. "You’re beautiful, Li. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you."

"Mr. Styles?" 

Harry slowly disentangles himself from Liam and turns to hold his hand out to the older gentleman next to them. "Hi Dr. Crimean. Liam, this is my portfolio advisor. Dr. Crimean, this is Liam, my, um, subject."

Liam really, really hopes that _um_ was supposed to be something else.

"Ahh, the famous Liam. It’s so nice to finally meet you." Dr. Crimean holds out his hand and Liam takes it. "You have inspired a most impressive collection. One of the best senior portfolios I have seen in years."

"Thanks," Liam says, ducking his head and smiling when he feels Harry bump his hip.

"Well, if you’ll excuse us, I have some people I’d like you to meet, Harry."

"Yeah, of course, just-" He turns to Liam, catching his hand. "Don’t leave. Please, just, don’t leave, yeah?"

"Alright."

***

Liam’s on his fourth cigarette when Louis leaves for the after party, stopping just long enough to bum a smoke and say, "you are quite the muse" with his eyebrows all the way in his hairline.

"Um, thanks?" Liam says, unsure.

"No problem." Louis hands back the cigarette, more than half smoked, and punches Liam on the arm. "Now, don’t screw it up."

"Thanks," Liam repeats, chalking it full of sarcasm.

A blond, stocky looking fella who must be on the crew team or something calls Louis’ name and Louis takes off with a wave and a "don’t wait up," which Liam figures is rhetorical.

He’s two more cigarettes in when the gallery door opens again and Harry comes out, flanked by Anne and another woman with enough resemblance that she must be Harry’s sister. They talk quietly for a moment, and then Harry catches Liam’s eye with a small, shy smile.

He turns back to his family, raising his voice a little so it carries. "I’m gonna stick around a bit. Clean up, make sure everything’s locked up proper."

Gemma’s eyes flick over Harry’s head to Liam and she smirks. "Ah huh."

"Gem, please, just- breakfast in the morning, yeah? I’ll make it up to you with as many blueberry pancakes as you’d like."

Gemma shrugs. "As long as you bring him."

Harry looks over again, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shrugging. "We’ll see." He’s looking at Liam as he says it, though, and Liam suddenly wants nothing more than to have breakfast with these two women he’s barely met, just because they’re Harry’s family, and they’re clearly important to him.

Harry kisses both Anne and Gemma on the cheek before he waves them away, making sure they get into a cab before he walks over to Liam. "Can I?"

"You smoke?" Liam asks, even as he hands his over.

Harry takes a short draw and coughs into his wrist, shaking his head ruefully. "Not really, no. It’s just been a stressful few weeks."

"I get that."

"Can we-?" Harry waves his hand, the cigarette flying carelessly through the air and Liam catches Harry’s hand, dropping the cigarette onto the ground and snubbing it out with the toe of his dress shoes.

Liam’s not really sure what Harry was going to ask, or what he has in mind for them to do, but Liam knows exactly what he wants. What he has wanted for months, if he hasn’t, quite, been able to admit it for all that time.

"Stop me if you’re gonna," he whispers, as he tangles his fingers in Harry’s curls and pulls him forward.

Harry shakes his head. "Not gonna stop you." 

Liam closes the distance between their lips to press a gentle, closed kiss to Harry’s mouth. Harry whines, parting his lips and dropping his hands to pull at Liam’s hips, his fingers tugging at Liam’s belt loops like he wishes there was something else to hang onto. Harry’s lips are chapped and soft, though his top lip is scratchy with a couple days of sad stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. It’s different from the girls Liam had kissed at uni, stronger and more active, thrumming with the energy Harry always seems to have, and Liam feels alive in his own skin for the first time in his life.

"Harry, Harry," he murmurs, letting the building take his weight and pulling Harry with him, catching Harry’s body on his knee and pressing up, grinning at the way Harry whimpers and thrusts his hips against Liam’s thigh. He’s already a little hard, and Liam allows himself to hope that it’s because of him. Because of all the photos of Liam laid out in that gallery, laid bare for anyone to see, but, mostly, for Harry. To be brought to life by Harry’s eye and Harry’s camera.

"Shit, Liam, we’re-"

Harry’s voice is rough, shot through with nerves and emotion, and, when Liam slips his tongue between Harry’s lips, he tastes like champagne and adrenaline and a tiny hint of nicotine. Liam knows he must taste like so much more than that, all ash and tar, and he wants to apologize, wants to tell Harry that he only smokes when he’s anxious, or when he’s drinking with Louis. But Harry’s pulling at his dress shirt, tugging at the fabric until it’s wrinkled and warn and out of way so that Harry can slip his fingers under Liam’s waistband, slipping and sliding over the silk of Liam’s panties.

Harry groans, deep and dark and low in his chest, his hips thrusting forward, grinding down against Liam’s knee. He wrenches his lips away to kiss down Liam’s neck, nipping at his birthmark until it’s warm and tingling and Liam pulls at Harry, tugs at his hair until he’s breathing against Liam’s mouth.

"You taste like cigarettes," Harry murmurs, between staccato breaths, "and you feel like silk," he punctuates it with quick tugs at Liam’s panties.

"Is that-?" Liam starts, but Harry’s looking at him, pupils swollen and dark and Liam loses all sense of language or thought or anything beyond Harry, Harry’s hands, his lips, his rough, gravel voice scratching down Liam’s spine and settling behind his balls.

"Intoxicating," Harry finishes for him. "You’re intoxicating, Li. Have been since the day I met you."

Liam can’t grasp at thoughts through the fog, but he can sort of remember the way Harry looked, all curls and cheekbones and confidence, and he can remember thinking, just for a moment, that, "I wanted you."

"Yeah?"

Liam nods. "Oh yeah."

"Tell me more," Harry orders, as he pulls his hands from Liam’s ass and drops his head.

Liam follows his gaze, watches as Harry undoes the bottom two buttons of Liam’s shirt. "You were so experienced," Liam says, grabbing onto a thought as it swims by, and his voice sounds vague and far away.

Harry snorts as he flicks open the button on Liam’s trousers. "Not really. Just a photo shoot here or there, nothing like you." 

He sounds much too calm, much too composed and in charge of his faculties, and Liam wants to do something about that, except that Harry’s dragging down the zipper of his trousers, slowly, slowly, his fingers brushing against the bulge of Liam’s dick, and Liam can’t focus on anything but holding himself up and straight against the wall.

"I didn’t know you’d wear them tonight," Harry says, reverently, as the zipper catches and Harry flattens his palm against the silk of Liam’s dick. Liam pushes into Harry’s hand and Harry obliges, pressing his thumb against Liam’s head, where he’s already leaking a dark stain into the silk. "Probably a good thing I didn’t. Wouldn’t have been very good, meeting critics and gallery owners with a chub."

"Didn’t stop me," Liam gasps, and Harry’s fingers twitch against him. 

"Fuck." Harry arches forward, his own dick hard and heavy against Liam’s hip. "You surprise me. Everything you do."

"Thanks?" Liam’s not sure if that’s a good thing of not, but Harry’s hand is still on him, so he figures it has to be good, or at least something approaching good.

"Yeah." Harry lets out a deep, heavy breath and straightens, pulling his hand away from Liam’s dick to push his clothes out of the way. It’s late, circling past one am, and the streets are empty save for the dampened orange light of the street lamp, and Harry squints through it down at Liam.

Harry reaches out, reverently, placing a hand on Liam’s stomach, Liam’s muscles jumping and twitching at the warm, steady touch. Harry’s fingertips just brush the lace waistband, his thumb playing with the little satin bow at the center, framing Liam’s hips. Harry’s stays like that, the moments stretching out, barely moving as he takes Liam in. 

Liam has never felt more beautiful than he does right now. He’s always known he’s vaguely fit, in a pale, slightly unkempt, all-British kinda way, but he’d never thought about it until he met Harry, and he’s certainly never _felt_ it. Not until he slipped on that first pair of little green panties and let Harry’s camera record every one of Liam’s imperfections, smoothed over by lace and silk and that look Harry gets when he’s looking at Liam.

"You’re beautiful," Harry murmurs, and he’s said it before, said it over and over again, like if he said it enough he could will Liam into believing it. 

Liam believes him this time.

"Yeah," he murmurs back, raising Harry’s chin for another kiss, slower, more sultry and barely on this edge of too much, and Harry shivers.

"Can we-? Inside?" Harry asks, his breath a little bare and desperate, his sentences in short syllables and incomplete.

Liam grins, catching Harry’s hand and pulling him back to the gallery. It’s empty now, waiting for Harry to clean and lock up, but still lit up bright and illuminating and Liam blinks, seeing spots when they get inside and letting Harry guide him to the center of the room.

When Liam’s eyes adjust, he allows himself to look at the photos again. He can read his story in them, now, his slow acceptance of who he is and who he wants to be. And Liam had been so wrong. Harry clearly knows exactly how important he’s been to Liam, has documented it here, for everyone to see. As important as Liam has been to Harry.

Harry’s right, this is an intoxicating feeling.

"I can’t believe you did all this," Liam breathes out.

Harry shrugs. "You inspire me."

"I’m not- I don’t deserve this. I’m not special, Haz."

Harry shakes his head, his hand tightening around Liam’s. "Look around you, Liam. You’re the bravest, real, most special person I’ve ever met."

Liam ducks his head.

"And you have no idea," Harry continues, taking a step closer, coming around to stand in front of Liam, just a breath of space between their bodies, "how hard it’s been to take photos of you for months without being able to touch."

Liam knows exactly how hard that is. "I wanked. In your bathroom, during the photo shoot."

"I know," Harry smirks. "You're pretty loud."

"Oi."

Harry shrugs. "I don't mind. Got off a few times replaying those noises, actually."

Liam flushes. "Perv."

"Only if I don’t plan on doing anything about it," Harry argues, dipping his hands into Liam’s trousers and pulling Liam flush against his body.

Liam can feel how hard Harry is, can feel the heavy, thick line of him pressed against Liam’s thigh, and Liam arches into it, pressing their hips together and groaning at the brush of silk against the rough cotton of Harry’s trousers.

"Fuck, I need, Harry, let me touch you."

"Please. God, please."

Liam flicks open the button on Harry’s trousers and slips his hand inside, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s dick through the cotton of his boxers. Harry moans brokenly, swaying into Liam’s grasp, and Liam catches him with his free hand on Harry’s hip, drawing patterns on the damp skin of Harry’s stomach.

Liam’s been thinking about this for months. About what it would be like to have Harry in his hand, warm and twitching, and responsive to his touch. Liam hadn’t been able to imagine the noises Harry would make, though, the moans and groans and little hitches of breath every time Liam’s thumb presses against the spot under his head.

"You’re so hard," Liam says, in a little bit of wonder that he can do that to Harry, that he can make Harry this desperate, this guttural, this needy, for him, for _Liam_. 

Harry pulls back just far enough to look offended. "So are you."

"Wasn’t a bad thing."

"Oh." Harry laughs, shaking himself back into his body and using his free hand to undo the rest of the buttons of Liam’s dress shirt. "Sorry, I just- I’ve been thinking about this for a long time."

"Me too." Liam presses a kiss behind Harry’s ear, nipping and licking at the skin until it’s dark and red. "I’m not gonna last," he warns, because it only seem fair, after all this time, to give Harry a bit of a head’s up.

"Yeah," Harry breathes, finally getting to the last button and pushing Liam’s shirt to the floor, "me neither."

They don’t make it past the floor. It's a nice wood, waxed to keep out scuff marks, and it does nothing for Liam's back or knees, but he doesn't care. Not when Harry's spread out below him, stripped of his shirt and trousers down around his knees, lips red and swollen around a steady stream of moans and whines.

"Don’t ever want to stop touching you," Liam murmurs, slipping his hand into Harry's boxers and tapping his thumb against the head of Harry's dick.

"Fuck." Harry bends upwards, his knees bracketing Liam's thighs. "Don’t stop then."

"Mmm." Liam wraps Harry in his fist, the angle awkward and his movements obstructed by the fabric of his boxers. Harry groans, though, arching into it and trembling when Liam gets a good, long pump in.

Harry's hands are big on Liam's hips, exploring the bare skin of his chest and back, skimming over his abs and flicking at his nipples. He returns every-other caress, though, to slip into Liam's trousers, fingers tight and desperate over Liam's satin panties, pulling at the fabric, caressing the silk, catching his fingernails in the lace.

"I need, Li, please, just-" Harry murmurs, tightening his knees around Liam’s hips and flipping them over. Liam’s back lands on the ground with an ‘oomph,’ and by the time he’s regained his ability to breath, Harry’s divested him of his trousers.

Harry's eyes go dark and Liam allows himself to lay still, knees spread around Harry's, thighs shaking with pent-up arousal, dick hard and straining against the panties, a wet stain already spreading over his left hip where his dick is curled and trapped. Harry reaches out to press his palm flat against Liam, rubbing in slow, gentle circles, pressing against the head and watching as the fabric sticks and bunches.

"I have never-" Harry mutters, concentrating on the silk and the feel of Liam, hard and straining against the fabric, until Liam is aching and thick. 

He feels dizzy, the combination of Harry’s attention and the rub of silk against his dick, and, "Jesus fuck," he has never been so hard in his life.

"So beautiful," Harry mutters, again, just in case Liam still doesn’t get it. Liam reaches up for a kiss, to reassure Harry that he does, that he understands, and Harry grins into it.

Liam could lie here forever, basking in Harry’s gaze and his kisses, but Liam is hard and desperate, and he pushes at the waistband of Harry’s boxers. "Come on, come on." 

Harry laughs into Liam’s mouth, before pulling back just long enough to struggle out of his boxers. He’s ungraceful, though, and he looses his balance, his knees slipping and he tips forward, letting Liam catch him on his chest. Harry’s dick, long and thick and curving up towards his belly, brushes against Liam's and they both groan.

"Shit," Harry apologizes, catching himself on his elbows and raising himself more carefully onto his knees. Liam can’t think past an apology, draping his thighs over Harry's to give him room and momentum to thrust. 

It’s awkward and unsteady, little thrusts that miss most of the time, and Liam reaches down to give Harry something to thrust against. It’s difficult to wrap his fist around them both when Liam is still wearing the panties, but he doesn’t want to take them off, never, really, wants to take them off. So he twists his hand and manages to arrange them so that Liam has them both held loosely in his hand, tugging upwards to match each of Harry’s thrusts.

Harry feels strong above him, his legs warm and straining against Liam’s, his dick hard and leaking into the silk of Liam’s panties and the skin of his belly, and Liam feels his orgasm pooling in his balls. He reaches up with his free hand, tugging Harry's neck down and biting at Harry's lower lip as he comes, pumping into his silk panties and arching his hips to draw it out long after he's soft and sensitive.

Harry holds still through it, his whole body shaking with the effort, until Liam turns his head to press a gentle kiss on the inside of Harry's elbow and Harry nearly collapsed with a deep, guttural groan. He thrusts his hips once, twice, careful of his rhythm, and Liam reaches down, digging his fingers into Harry's ass as he speeds up, losing all sense of rhythm and grunting uncontrollably as Liam's fingers slip through the sheen of sweat pooling in the crease of his thigh.

"Fuck, Liam, I'm gonna-" Harry's body freezes as he comes, shooting across Liam's panties in long, thick swatches of white.

Harry falls to the side, burying his head in Liam's shoulder and pressing wet, slow, open-mouthed kisses against Liam's skin as Liam trails his hands over Harry's arm, settling him through it.

"Okay?" Liam finally asks, when Harry's breathing has returned to normal and the gallery feels big and open and light again.

"Perfect," Harry promises. "You're not allowed to wear anything but silk again." 

Liam laughs, glad they’re on the same page about that. "That's probably a compromise I can deal with."

"Good." Harry leverages himself onto his elbow for a kiss before he glances around them. "I was thinking we could put that one," he nods to the left and Liam strains to see the picture of himself in Harry's bed, "in the living room. Over the mantle maybe?"

Liam nods absently, his mind stuck on, "we?"

Harry freezes, his body leaning over Liam's but his eyes somewhere over Liam's shoulder. "Um, yeah, if, if that’s okay? Unless you wanted- if this was only a one night thing- I'd-"

"Harry," Liam pulls at his chin, "that's one’s a little-? Maybe we should take another one. Something a little more appropriate for the mantel."

Harry’s grin spreads across his face, slow and tentative until it settles fully into his dimples, and Liam’s stomach swoops.

"I’m never gonna stop taking photos of you," Harry promises. He reaches behind him, fishing around in his trousers for his iPhone, holding it up and biting his lip. "Can I?"

Liam looks down, at where his panties are rumpled and stained, and his dick tries to twitch where it’s soft and curled around his hip. "Have at it."

Harry pauses, then presses his left palm flat against Liam’s stomach, fingers brushing against the lace trip. He futzes with his phone for a moment with his right hand, before he snaps a series of pictures. Finally, he turns the phone so that Liam can see and Liam’s eyes cross at how hot it is, Harry’s large, tanned hand, his anchor tattoo disappearing into the frame of the picture, framed by Liam’s panties and the tops of his thighs. It looks debauched and beautiful.

"It’s perfect," Liam forces out.

Harry looks at the picture for another minute, before he locks his phone and drops his behind him, settling against Liam’s chest and playing with the satin bow on Liam’s stomach. "This night has been pretty important to me. Wanted to commemorate it properly."

"Not everyday you have your first gallery opening," Liam agrees.

"Not everyday you let me kiss you," Harry counters.

Liam trails his fingers down Harry’s back. "That could change."

"Yeah?" Harry asks, eyes bright, as if _Liam’s_ the one who would say no. As if Liam didn’t as much as agree that Harry’s mantel is his mantel, as if Harry’s flat is his flat. Liam had thought that was pretty clear, unless- unless Harry is as unsure of himself as Liam is? Which would be absolutely ridiculous but-

Liam raises himself on his elbows, careful not to dislodge Harry’s hand, even as the floor stings against his bones. "Yeah. I- yeah, Harry."

"Well," Harry glances up at Liam, a grin toggling at the corners of his mouth, "that’s good, cause I think I promised my mum and sister that we’d do breakfast with them in the morning?"

"That’s right," Liam tries for casual, "you did."

Harry’s grin slips through. "Come home with me? I have a bed that’s a lot more comfortable than this floor, and I still need to thank you, proper like."

"I don’t need to be thanked," Liam insists, kissing Harry before he can protest. "I will take you up on the bed, though. This floor is killer."

Harry kisses him, long and slow, before he scrambles up, searching for their clothes and Liam pulls his shirt on without doing it up over his flushed skin. He does do up his trousers, even though he feels sticky and damp, buttoning them over their come stains in deference to their taxi driver and whoever else they may pass on their way home. 

"Ready?" Harry asks, when he thinks he’s presentable enough.

"Yeah, um, just a sec." Liam glances around him, at the gallery, at the photos of himself, at the journey Harry’s documented, and smiles, deep and settled. He holds out his hand and Harry takes it, flicking off the lights and pulling Liam back into the dim lamp light.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna chat about Liam in lingerie, photographer Harry, or anything else Harry and Liam related, please comment here or find me on [tumblr](http://speakingwosound.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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